You say I was wandering; it’s a forgivable conclusion. But if you looked closer, you would see my paths, though twisted, were not purposeless, my hair was not wild in the wind but brushed and tied back. I was not barefoot, or in the slippers I had run from my house in, or the stilettos I had not been able to change when I escaped the dance, but sneakers, relatively new, good for walking in.
You know, things are different for people like me. We’ve always thrown our passions out against the hills, let them echo, find communion with the hopes of others, magnify like waves bouncing inside a satellite dish, like the sun’s rays when kids out on the hills cook potatoes in foil lined bowls... well I suppose you’ve never done that.
What I’m trying to say is that you find safety stultifying, and true there is a certain beauty in chaos and raw emotion. But when your passions are not those you can express, there is no safe place to burn. I come up here to the edge of feeling, to catch aflame and empty my mind and lose everything. Then I turn and walk slowly back down the hills. To you.